A Season of Discontent
by Imogen74
Summary: Post Fall. Post Molly posing as doormat. Post Sherlock being an ass. Sherlolly, eventually.
1. Chapter 1

Contrary to what most people thought, Molly Hooper was not stupid; nor was she silly, clumsy, or insipid. She simply was reduced to these qualities around certain people. It was her particular desire to shed them, to start afresh. This is what she believed the Fall would afford her. A clean slate. A new beginning. A fresh outlook.  
This is what she told herself. She said that there wouldn't be a Sherlock Holmes to push her around any longer. She said that those days were over. Done. Finished. He was gone, to be sure. That day at her flat, the one she played over numerous times in her mind, solidified that indisputable fact.  
"Thank you, Molly. I think I'll be fine now."  
"You're still bleeding." The Fall had caused some damage, but nothing some bandages & a few days of rest wouldn't see right.  
"Yes, but it should stop with some pressure & ice. Easily done." His hand flicked up toward the gash on his forehead.  
"Ok. But...you need to rest. You're welcome to stay here a day or two..." She blushed ever so slightly.  
Sherlock saw this & smiled. "I've made arrangements with Mycroft. No need to worry."  
He got up, touched her cheek, & left.  
He was gone. Gone, perhaps forever. Well...so be it. She was determined. She would not allow her fancy for that man continue to cloud her mind.

And so it was. Molly Hooper, with unparalleled resolve, took to dating. She was never terribly popular with men, though it was not difficult for her to obtain a date. She was, admittedly a scathing flirt. Not something that would normally pop into mind when one thought about Molly, but undeniably the truth. A flirt, & quite a good one.  
It was about six months since she had seen or heard from Sherlock. He had sent her one email a week after leaving her flat telling her he had left the country for a while. Rather cryptic, but it bothered her little. Her resolve hadn't waned, she had a date that very night.  
When she got home reflecting on her date, recalling she had spent six months in such a fashion, she discovered John Watson at her door.  
"Oh! Hello John! What's going on?"  
"Hey Molly...sorry to just show up...I wanted to tell you...he's back."  
At first, she didn't know what in earth he was referring to. Then she looked more closely. Ah, yes. He's back.  
"Oh. Well, did you punch him?" She was opening her door, nonchalantly allowing him entry to her flat.  
"I did, yeah. He asked me to pop by...he's still hiding out at Baker Street, not sure when he'll reemerge."  
"But Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? You all know now, so you must be safe."  
"Yeah, thing is, he's rather hurt. Got himself badly injured, shot."  
Molly stopped & looked at John. Shit. "Is he...Ok? I mean, will he be Ok? Do you need help?"  
"Not sure just yet. Maybe. If you're willing."  
"Of course. Just let me know."  
John left, leaving Molly alone to ponder what exactly it meant that Sherlock was shot & sending John to her flat. Nothing, probably. But she began playing with her ponytail all the same.


	2. Chapter 2

The morgue always felt cold. It always felt like death, rot, decomposition. She had tried, on numerous occasions to brighten it up a bit, but to no avail. A morgue is a morgue, flowers & knickknacks notwithstanding.  
Her attempts to brighten up the morgue made her smile now. Her sense of humor having grown with her altering attitude toward life. Molly was pleased with herself, & what was especially pleasing was her disinterest in the detectives unceremonious return.  
Her mobile rang out a receipt of text. John Watson.  
"Molly,  
I believe he might require some morphine. I know it's a lot to ask, but might you bring over a vial or two?"  
Molly's sigh echoed in the basement chamber. How irksome. She could get into quite a lot of trouble. Her good heart soon overcame any trepidation she felt & sent a responding text indicating she could do that. She briefly wondered if John had done any damage while removing the bullet.  
Mrs. Hudson answered the door at 221.  
"Oh, Molly dear. Thank goodness. He is in such a state."  
"Which one?" Molly smiled.  
"Well, both, now that you mention it. So horrible..."  
Molly nodded & listened to Mrs. Hudson prattle on about the moaning, about John yelling, about why on earth he didn't just take him to hospital & be done with it.  
She went into the upstairs apartment & heard John talking. He emerged from the bedroom & headed toward the kitchen.  
"Hi John. Here's the morphine." She handed the vials to him. Three in all.  
"Oh, thanks Molly. He's in a lot of pain."  
She looked down the hall. "Was there a problem getting the bullet out?"  
John looked steadily at the floor. He shuffled his feet. "Well...I, erm..."  
"Is the bullet out? John?" Molly was looking at him angrily.  
"He won't let me! I tried...I'm hoping that the morphine will sedate & numb him enough so that I can get to it..." He appeared quite guilty.  
"Where was he wounded?"  
"Shoulder. Right side."  
"Fever?"  
"Yeah...right...I've kept it as clean as I could manage. He's such a prat."  
Molly nodded. She didn't blame him necessarily. She supposed she could help retrieve the bullet.  
"Right, then. Lets do this thing." She rolled up her sleeves & strode confidently to the bedroom, throwing it open. She observed the patient in bed. He appeared pale, clammy, tired.  
"Hello Molly." Sherlock seemed completely nonplussed to see her.  
"Hello, Sherlock. Got yourself shot, did you?"  
"Apparently."  
"And a pitiful excuse for a patient. Why won't you let John get it out?"  
"Because..." He looked down. "Because I was worried he'd muff it up."  
"You don't trust an army doctor to remove a bullet?" She eyed him suspiciously.  
"It's been some time since he's operated. I thought he could use some help."  
Ah. Now she saw. He had been plotting ways for her to come & assist John.  
"Really Sherlock. Just ask next time."  
She called for John & went to the bathroom to wash up. How very ridiculous he was. Her resolve held fast, in fact, it was strengthened by her annoyance at his childish behavior.


	3. Chapter 3

"It was awfully deep, mate. You're lucky it wasn't infected."  
Sherlock laid in bed, exhausted from the operation.  
Molly had just finished cleaning everything up. She entered the bedroom.  
"So. Guess I'll go, then."  
John smiled at her. "Thanks, Molls. Couldn't have done it without you."  
"Right. He's a piss poor patient. Though admittedly alright during the actual procedure."  
She looked at Sherlock. "Don't give John grief. He's helping you," she turned to John once more. "I'll be back tomorrow with some food. You men don't know how to keep a kitchen." Molly smiled & left the flat.  
"Well Sherlock. What do you say to that? She put you in your place. Not timid little Molly anymore, looks like." John didn't think that he head heard him, but Sherlock was still awake. He had noticed the change in Molly as well.

Molly practically skipped home. Her mind soured. It wasn't easy, this new manner if behaving. It went in direct opposition to her natural inclination to be sweet & soft spoken. She wondered how long she could keep it up.  
She entered her flat & heated up some dinner. Three messages were waiting for her on her voicemail. Later. Food, telly, bed. That's all she craved right now.

Sherlock Holmes laid awake much of the night. Moran, the skilled sniper had shot him. He hated this fact, & his mind writhed with abhorrence at it. He refused sleep despite the fact that the morphine begged it.  
He sat up & his shoulder burst with pain. Good god. How could this have happened? He must've been too eager to come back, to start living again. Weak, silly, sentimental. He could not stay in this attitude any longer. Get up, you great git, John said in his mind. He got up, thinking of his violin.  
Sherlock stumbled into the sitting room. He was physically quite weak still, after all, the bullet had only been removed hours before. He sat at the laptop, & decided to peruse his email.  
Over 1,000 new messages. Hate mail. Fan mail. Dull.  
He needed a plan. He needed to keep John & Mrs. Hudson safe. And Molly. She had been compromised too as a result of his selfishness. How he loathed the fact that he thought about such things now. How boring. How hideous. How very un-Sherlock. Blast it. And he brewed some coffee.

A fortnight's passage saw him right. He could almost play his violin once more. John felt much better about things. And when he saw his friend up & about, he decided it was time to talk.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Hm?"  
"Who shot you? What happened? I know how you faked suicide, but the rest..."  
Sherlock wasn't terribly keen on discussing these matters. He'd rather think about finding Moran.


	4. Chapter 4

He knew he couldn't avoid John's interrogations forever. But, another day or two might see his mood improved. He wanted out. He needed to get out of the flat. Damn the consequences.  
He waited until it was quite late. John had gone to bed. He got dressed & put on that ridiculous hat. It might serve some purpose after all.  
Out he went. Where to? The air, though crisp, refreshed him after being cooped up for so very long. Molly suddenly appeared before his minds eye. Perhaps he could check in on her, she worked the graveyard shift as a rule. Surely she would not mind his popping by.

He was wrong. Molly appeared less than happy to see him.  
When she looked up, he registered a very slight scowl.  
"Sherlock, what are you doing here?"  
"Needed out. I knew you'd be working, so I..."  
"Interrupted my paperwork?"  
"It would seem so." He studied her a moment. She hadn't gotten up, hadn't smiled, hadn't done anything to suggest that she wanted him there. Strange.  
Molly was not going to placate his desire for attention by playing to his game. No. She could be just as stubborn as the next person, & she would refuse to begin any conversation. She had plenty of work to do, & she genuinely didn't want to talk or make polite conversation with someone that detested small talk.  
Sherlock shuffled his feet a moment.  
"Shoulder is feeling better. Should be up & back in no time."  
"Good."  
"Molly, I wanted to speak with you briefly about Moran. I'm afraid that I might've compromised you a bit. You'll need to be on your guard. And I mean more than your usual - pay attention to details. Be especially sensitive to strange people. Carry your mobile everywhere."  
Molly listened as he rambled on, though only half listening. She wanted him to be done so that she could chuck him out & get on with her work.  
"Yes. Thank you. I think I can do those things. Is there anything else?"  
Sherlock looked at her intently. Nothing about her appearance suggested anything particularly amiss. No new clothing. Makeup the same. No, she was the same Molly in every respect except the way in which she was treating him.  
"No. No, that's all. Well. Goodnight, Molly."  
She smiled at him. "Goodnight, Sherlock."  
And with that, he left.  
Good. No heart stirrings. No stammers. No nervous laughter. No. It appeared she was over him. And that, Molly deduced, was most assuredly quite excellent.


	5. Chapter 5

The hunt for Moran had begun. Sherlock wasted no time in perusing his assailant. He also was careful not to make the mistake of venturing out any longer. Silly notion, really. He chose to ignore the pangs that would otherwise entice him outdoors.  
John Watson, by contrast, was simply dying to get away from the detective. While he loved the fact that he was alive, he loathed the fact that he was stuck for rather long intervals alone with him. He longed for occupation that would bring him outside. Occasionally, Sherlock would oblige him & send him off on various errands; sometimes the task would involve contacting the homeless network, sometimes they needed sugar. Whatever the case, John longed for reprieve from his rather bossy friend, & even if the job was to fetch some sugar, he was only too happy to do it.  
It came upon the time when Sherlock was desperately close to his end. Moran was so very close, he could almost see him...

It was something out of a horror story, for the night was wrought with storm & quite cold. Molly was washing the utensils from her latest autopsy. An old woman who loved alone, excepting one cat. Molly was very sad for the lady & her cat. She had a soft spot for cats. She began playing with the idea of taking in the orphaned creature. Surely her tabby wouldn't mind. She began to reflect on the similarities between herself & the old lady. Molly was alone, with one cat. Molly hadn't many friends. True, she had recently enjoyed an influx in dates, but none of them struck her fancy as such. She heaved a very heavy sigh.  
It was then that she heard it. An echo. A sigh, very much like the one that only just escaped her lips. But the morgue never echoed. Not like that. Molly, for all of her nervous tendencies, was not a frightful girl. Something bade her take a weapon. She hadn't put away all of her tools just yet, so she grabbed a rather blunt looking instrument & began to move toward the source of the sound. A whimper. A shuffle. What on earth...perhaps it was the lady's cat? No. Stupid idea. There weren't cats in a morgue.  
No. She spied a pair of shoes behind the door. Only the tips. The rest was concealed in shadow. Too late to call anyone. Whoever it was likely knew that she knew they were there. Her hand holding her knife began to sweat as she slowly began to grip it more tightly & her breathing sped up.  
She flung the door shut, bent down to avoid any bullet that might be flying towards her, & stabbed the intruder in the shin. He screamed. He fell. He dropped his gun & Molly quickly retrieved it. She stood there, aiming his gun at him, & dug for her mobile to call the police.


	6. Chapter 6

Everyone entering the morgue was sopping wet. To say that the rain was heavy was an understatement most unfair. It was a downpour.  
In the interest of convenience & access, Sherlock had revealed his existence to Lestrade. He had hoped that the DI would let him in on anything that appeared suspect or Moran's work. He was right.  
Sherlock had received the text that Moran was found & injured & being arrested exactly when he was settling down to some violin playing. At first, he was irritated. That quickly disappeared when he read Lestrade's message.  
"John! Come quickly! He's been found!"  
Sherlock was putting on his coat. John followed along eagerly in his wake.  
"Where are we going?" asked John. They were in the cab.  
"Bart's morgue, apparently." Sherlock felt a pang at the thought. Surely the only reason Moran would be at the morgue was to pursue Molly. He had discovered that Sherlock trusted her far more than he had originally let on. This caused him disquiet, but surely Lestrade would have let him know if Molly had been hurt.  
After a brief altercation with some irksome officers at the outside entrance to the morgue, Sherlock & John entered. They too, were soaking wet.  
"Well, Sherlock. It seems he's been found," Greg Lestrade was saying as he approached the newest members of the rather large audience gathering in the morgue.  
"Indeed. How did it happen? Is he apperceptive?" Sherlock was scanning the scene, striding along towards the spot where he saw the handcuffed Moran. He noted the bullet hole at the far wall. Someone had fired & missed. Most likely the victim of the attack.  
"If you mean 'conscious', then yeah. He was hit in the leg."  
"The leg?"  
"Yeah. She got him quite good, actually."  
"She?"  
"It's odd to have you ask all the questions. Molly. She stabbed him in the leg."  
He froze, & John nearly slammed into him.  
"What's wrong? Sherlock?"  
Sherlock Holmes was looking for Molly. There, just a few yards from where he stood. She was laughing, drinking something, coffee likely, with an orange blanket wrapped about her person. Shock. But she didn't appear to be shocked. She was fine. Anger swelled inside of him. Anger, not triumph, not boredom, not exhaustion, not nicotine withdrawal. Foreign, foreign state. The room seemed to slow. He turned toward Moran. His pace was quick. His eyes never leaving the face of his adversary, suddenly turned mortal enemy. His fist hit the man's face with alarming force. Broken jaw, likely.  
A few people grabbed the detective at once, pulling him off of the suspect. Everyone was yelling. Sherlock remained quiet, looking severely at the man with the broken jaw.  
"What the bloody hell are you doing?!" John was screaming at him.  
Sherlock ignored him. He walked away, heading toward Molly. He approached her, & registered a slight look of confusion on her face.  
"Are you alright?"  
"I am, thank you," she replied softly. She was deeply confused by his behavior. Probably just angry because he wasn't the one that caught him.  
"Good. I...I'm sorry that I wasn't able to get him earlier. I had, in fact, nearly discovered where he was when I received text that he had been caught. I suppose that my recent state had impeded my mind a touch. Silly, really. Physical needs & such. However, I can assure you that this is not the regular state in which I operate. Had I been fully well, I certainly would've prevented this unfortunate occurrence. It won't happen again."  
Molly smiled at the dexterity of his speech & the speed at which it was delivered. Ha! He was pissed it wasn't him that had caught him in the end.  
"Never mind, Sherlock. He's caught. I'm fine, & so are you. You've saved the day, never you fear."  
"I'm not afraid."  
"Well, neither am I." At that, Molly turned & walked away.  
Sherlock watched her go with a forlorn sort of look about his countenance. John was at his side.  
"What was that about?" John asked.  
"Nothing. I was simply checking to see if she was Ok."  
"Is she?"  
He turned to John & nodded. Lestrade came over to them to indicate they were bringing Moran to the Yard, & if Sherlock promises to behave, he can come along. He needed to provide a statement. He would also need to begin explaining why he wasn't dead. Donovan would be most displeased. But Greg would be collecting on a bet with Anderson, so he was eager to get going.


	7. Chapter 7

Molly entered her flat feeling a tad less triumphant than she had imagined she would feel a few hours previous. The reason, of course, was due to Sherlock's puzzling behavior. Why did he punch Moran? Why did he come over to her & inquire after her state of mind?  
Perhaps he had changed. Perhaps he had realized what a complete ass he'd been for so long.  
No. More likely he was just confused, & didn't particularly like the way in which he felt due to his confusion. Molly wouldn't be sent on a fool's errand. She knew Sherlock Holmes. She knew him almost as well as John. Probably more than Mycroft. No no no. He won't change, at least not toward her. He'd always use her for his own gain. Nothing would ever change that.

They returned to 221B feeling as though they'd run a marathon. At least John did. He was so very tired, so exhausted, that he didn't engage his friend at all when they entered the flat. He went to bed directly.  
That suited the detective fine. He sat in his armchair & stared at the abyss of information laid out before his mind's eye.  
So many questions fielded. So many stares, sneers, smiles. How fickle people were. He'd be on the front page of the Times tomorrow, certainly. He cared but little. The next day there would be another to take his place.  
No. What he was really dwelling on was Molly. Molly had caught Moran. Stabbed him in the leg. Dodged a bullet. How on earth was this possible? How was it to be explained? Nothing satisfied him. He closed his eyes. He had noted the marked change in her of late. Since he'd returned, really. Had she underwent some sort of life altering experience in his absence? Had something occurred to make her so delightfully interesting? He considered the possibilities. 1) she was in love with someone, not Sherlock. This was thinkable, though not likely. Certainly something would've betrayed an affection so profound. 2) she had discovered renewed interest in her job. Possibly, but Molly always enjoyed her job. 3) she had inherited a large sum of money. No. Ridiculous notion. He would certainly have spied something to suggest that. 4) she didn't like him any longer.  
His eyes shot open. He quickly went through every interaction they had had since his return. Yes...it was beginning to make sense. She didn't like him anymore.  
So, where does that leave Sherlock? He had never sought her affection. He quite often loathed it. He should feel indifferent, if he indeed *felt* anything at all. But no, indifference was not quite right. He felt...he grimaced slightly...a bit empty. Lonely. Abandoned. "Yuck," was what his mind said, though the word never escaped his lips. He scowled at himself. How preposterous.  
He got up immediately, & went for his violin. He began sawing at it angrily.  
John Watson came downstairs, rubbing his eyes.  
"Well, are you gonna talk about it? Or do you plan on punishing your violin for whatever is bothering you?"  
"Nothing is bothering me."  
"Your violin thinks otherwise."  
He ceased his violent play & looked at John.  
"You know, friends talk about things when they're upset. And, since I'm pretty much your only friend..." John stopped abruptly at the look in Sherlock's face. "What?"  
"Nothing. You're not my only friend."  
"I'm not? I believe you had said otherwise, not that long ago..."  
"Well. Yes. Yes, you are," Sherlock shot a pathetic smile at John. "Nothing is wrong, John. I'm fine. Just a bit tired. What time is it?"  
"Seven. A.M."  
"Right. Well...since I haven't had much sleep...think I'll go have a quick lie-down."  
And with that, John was left in the sitting room alone. He put the kettle on & headed downstairs to fetch the Times & see what it made of Sherlock Holmes. He had given up trying to figure him.


	8. Chapter 8

He couldn't tell the time of day by the light in his room, for the curtains were drawn fast, & no light escaped. He imagined he had laid there for at least an hour. He could look at the clock on the bedside table, but that would require movement. He detested the idea. John could not be heard any longer rummaging about the flat. Perhaps he went out. Sherlock stared at the ceiling feeling dreadful. Uncomfortable. Discontented. He despised anything that made him feel thus, therefore he must despise Molly. She was the catalyst for his mood.  
Why he cared so much, he couldn't fathom. He desperately wished to feel indifferent. He sat up at long last, thinking perhaps he should check his phone, his email. Perhaps Lestrade had forwarded a case along. If not, he would start preparing new slides. Work would see his mind right.  
He emerged from his bedroom & walked down the hall to obtain his mobile. He noted the windows & lack of sun. Perplexed, he checked his phone. It read five o'clock. In the evening. For ten hours he had laid there. He ran his fingers through his hair...how on earth did that happen? He must've fallen asleep. He had been driven to distraction. That's it. He'd have to confront Molly. This sort of thing simply won't do.  
He quickly noted no text, no interesting email, & fetched his coat.

It was pleasant to have a day off. Molly had a glass of wine she was sipping. She was reading "Rebecca" by Daphne du Maurier, which she loved. A mystery of sorts, in which a new bride doubts her husband's love, convinced he is still in love with his dead first wife. She would never measure up to Rebecca, his true love. It was Molly's third time reading the novel, but this time she didn't so much identify with the main character, she found her ridiculous. Spineless. Pitiful. Most assuredly not Molly any longer.  
There was a rap at her door. She hated being interrupted on her day off. She got up to answer it, not even bothering to look to see who was interrupting her solace.  
He pushed right passed her & entered her flat without a proper hello.  
"Hello, Sherlock," Molly said irritably, not sounding the least pleased to see him.  
He didn't answer. He stood there, in her sitting room, & turned to look at her.  
"Molly, have I done something to upset you?"  
"No."  
"Have you found someone else to fawn over?"  
"Excuse me?"  
"Have you found another man to obsess about?"  
"Well, no. Not as such. Why?"  
"Because. You appear to be...less than...cordial toward me."  
Molly smiled ever so slightly. "I don't know what you mean."  
"Yes you do. You're different. You...stabbed a man. A dangerous man. You treat me with," he hesitated, "almost cold indifference. I simply want to find out what I've done to exact this change."  
"It's bothering you, isn't it?" Molly smiled once more. She thought a moment. Should she indulge him? It would likely speed along his quitting her flat. "Ok, Sherlock. Alright." She sighed. He smiled, & waited.  
"I suppose I just decided that I was wasting my time in a horrible fashion. I was caught up in a fantasy. You were never going to like me, not the way I wanted you to. So...I moved on. And you know what? I'm really happy. Really. The whole thing...this decision...it's just opened up a whole world to me," she was radiantly speaking, smiling, gesticulating. Sherlock gawked at her. "It's changed my outlook, the way I treat people, the way I'm treated. It's truly wonderful." She finished. She looked at him. He stared at her. "Well?"  
"Well. That answers that." He nodded to himself. "So, Molly. I'm pleased that you've moved on, as you put it. It's really wonderful you've so wholly committed to bettering yourself. I use patches..." He then noted the silliness of the analogy. Or at least, the wording. "So. Yes. Quite." Unsure what to do, he went over to her & shook her hand. Molly's face revealed a smirk. He chose to ignore it, "Thank you for indulging me. I am...much better..." And he left.  
Well, that was interesting. Molly thought she'd never seen him so flustered. Pleased, she sat back down & resumed her reading,  
As for Sherlock Holmes, he was beyond flustered. He was completely flabbergasted. He had never thought that Molly would change so drastically. What about his lab access? His experiments? His coffee? What about the way she stammered when she spoke to him? Was all of this going to disappear with her regard? How is this supportable? He strode along the London streets, lost in thought. Relationships were nothing he ever paid much mind to. He had no idea how to go about altering them. He wanted Molly back.  
Well, maybe with a hint of the new Molly for good measure. Why were people so changeable? Why must they suddenly go about any change that might perplex him? He wasn't used to being perplexed. Perhaps at was what bothered him the most.  
John Watson was well versed in this sort of thing. Perhaps he might lend his expertise to his Molly problem.


	9. Chapter 9

John Watson had had lunch with a lovely lady. Mary was her name. He liked her very much. Easy to talk to, easy to look at. Fantastic laugh, which thankfully, she used quite often. Yes. A pleasant afternoon.  
He was a bit confused when he came back to the flat to find Sherlock gone. He was certain he'd be pouting at least into the night. Whatever was bothering him, it was severe. But John thought of it little, he was certain Sherlock Holmes Wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut for very long on the matter.  
He was right.  
Sherlock burst into the flat like a shotgun going off.  
"Good. You're here."  
"Where else would I be?"  
Sherlock didn't answer. "I require your expertise on a very pressing matter."  
John looked at him. This caught his attention.  
"My expertise? I can't imagine..."  
Sherlock sat opposite John. "Molly doesn't like me anymore."  
"Good."  
"Good?" He didn't like that answer.  
"Right. Good. She shouldn't like you. You're a git. Not sure why I like you..."  
"That's enough," he wasn't amused.  
John looked at him. "What's wrong, Sherlock? Molly won't let you play?"  
"No. She's...decided to move on. She said she's got a new outlook or some such nonsense. What do you make of that?"  
"She's moved on. New outlook."  
"I mean beyond the obvious! You are being rather obtuse. Does it amuse you?"  
"I dunno, Sherlock. What do you think it means? Why do you care?"  
"I care because," he cringed. "I care...because...I thought we were...friends."  
"You don't have friends."  
"No." Sherlock Holmes did not have friends.  
"Maybe your scared."  
"Scared?" He recalled telling Molly how scared he wasn't.  
"Yeah. Scared of the access she might not give you to the morgue. Scared that your flirting wont work any longer. Scared that you've changed, too, & it's not attractive to her anymore."  
He considered this. Yes. That seemed right. After all, he was scared that something would happen to John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. That fact drove him to fake his own death. Fright. How irksome.  
But there was more.  
"Yes. I think you're on to something. But there's more than just that..."  
"You've enjoyed her attention, & you miss it?"  
Sherlock clapped his hands together. "That's it! John, you're brilliant!"  
"Oh god."  
"What?"  
"Well, it's pretty pitiful, mate. I mean, either you're more a toddler than I have ever given you credit for, or you've secretly been carrying a torch for Molly Hooper all this time, & not even you...YOU of all people, realized it."  
"What are you on about?"  
John rubbed his face. He sighed deeply. He now knew what it felt like to be a parent. "Do you like Molly, in a...warm...way?"  
Sherlock stared blankly at his sole friend.  
"Do you fancy her? Do you fantasize about her? Do you desire to spend leisure time with her?"  
"No...I..." Sherlock thought about these questions a moment. He got up. He rummaged for his nicotine patches.  
"You like her! You like Molly! And now, you can't have her! Talk about brilliant. I'm going to buy her a gift. What would Molly Hooper like to have as a gift?" John sat reflecting, looking smug.  
Sherlock turned toward John. "Very funny. I'm so glad you're pleased with yourself. Not that I'm going to do anything about this."  
"Only because she won't let you."  
"If I wanted to, I certainly could."  
"No you couldn't."  
"Is that a challenge?"  
"Do you fancy her?"  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "No other explanation seems likely."  
"Are you a virgin?"  
He looked at John to ascertain his seriousness. "No, I am not."  
John thought a moment. "I'll bet you 100 quid that you can't win Molly back over."  
"Why did you ask if I was a virgin?"  
"Because I would've bet you 300 quid if you were."  
Sherlock laughed at this.  
"A challenge. Interesting. How long do I have?"  
"I'll give you a month, but there needs to be some rules, because I really like Molly, & I won't see her hurt. The only reason I'm doing this is because you've admitted to liking her, so this will speed things along."  
"Never mind your silly sentimental rules. One month..."  
"You'd better start caring about sentiment. It's all you're going to be concerning yourself with for 30 days. Ok. Rules...one. No kissing her until you've proven yourself."  
"What? That's hardly fair."  
"Two. No sabotaging any dates. You need to play fair. Three. At least one date needs to be had in said timeframe. Oh, & no shagging."  
"You said no kissing. No shagging goes without saying."  
"You can shag without kissing, mate."  
"Right. Ok. When does the challenge start?"  
"Now. It starts right now. Oh, & Sherlock?"  
"Hm?" He was steepling his fingers under his chin, lost in thought.  
"Don't tell Molly about this. I mean, I kinda want you to win..." John thought about the possibility of Sherlock actually having a girlfriend. It might even make him normal. No. Not normal, but bearable.


	10. Chapter 10

Thus began the period in John & Sherlock's relationship that John referred to as "A Study in Weird." Sherlock, for the next two days, never left the flat. He was constantly on the computer, looking up various dating advice. It was mostly rubbish.  
He knew that this would be difficult, but he was certainly up to the challenge. Every time he thought about how Molly stabbed Moran, it acted as incentive to continue on this trajectory. Every time he thought about her smiling at him...it behaved as an acute stimulant. He had no idea he was so far gone. Blast it. How he longed to be his old self, but John was right. It was time. And he'd be collecting 100 quid to boot.  
On the third day, god created morning & evening. And so it was, that that evening, Sherlock showered, tousled his hair in the sexiest way he possibly could, & wore a blue shirt to accent his eyes. He thought that perhaps he should bring Molly something, but it wasn't his intention to ask her out just yet. There would be little hope for success. No, he meant to confuse her ever so slightly, to make her doubt her resolve. He knew how to woo a woman, he had done it before, albeit quite some time ago. He wasn't completely daft in that area. Just marginally so.

Molly Hooper had had three dates in as many days. Though none of these dates were much fun, per se, it was nice to not have to worry about dinner after work. It was nice to receive so much attention. She smiled to herself. She felt pretty. Interesting. Desirable. Her makeup & clothing reflected her inner confidence. She wore a bit of blusher, some lipstick. Done her hair a touch differently. She was wearing more flattering clothes. New bra & underwear - the sexy stuff she never bothered with before.  
She had no date tonight. Paul, the date from two nights previous was her favorite by far, but he was out of town for the next few days. He promised to call when he returned. She was in the morgue, half reflective, half writing a report, when she heard the door open. She didn't look up. She could tell by the pace who it was. How tedious, & yet, it had been a few days since he barged into her flat. She supposed she was over it.  
"Hello Sherlock," she said, still not looking up.  
"Hello Molly."  
At this, she raised her eyes. Well, he looked...different.  
"What can I do for you?"  
"I have these samples. I was wondering if you might allow me access to the lab." He held up a bag.  
He's never asked before. "Sure. Go right in."  
He smiled & entered the adjacent lab.  
Molly paused ever so slightly at the scene just played. John, she thought. He's been talking to John & John told him he was a prat. Sherlock was feeling guilty. He was afraid he would lose his lab privileges. Well, Molly had no intention of impeding his work. She was quite content not to give a damn.

Sherlock was in the lab, setting up the scene. He smirked as he knocked over one of the samples, sending it crashing to the floor.  
Molly called in, "Everything alright?"  
"Well, actually, some help would be desirable."  
Molly sighed. She went to procure some cleaning products, a broom, a dustpan, & a bin.  
She entered the lab, watching Sherlock gingerly pick up broken glass.  
"Here, let me help you." She knelt beside him. They began cleaning the floor in tandem. Sherlock noticed where Molly's hands were working, & moved his own hands in that direction. He deliberately brushed his fingers along the side of her hand. He made no indication to suggest that he meant to do that, or that he hadn't. But Molly noticed, & she moved slightly away from him.  
When they had finished, they got up, Molly throwing away the bits of glass & paper towel.  
"Thanks Molly. I've mucked this up. I'll need to prepare these over again. Perhaps I can return tomorrow?"  
"If you like."  
"I'll do that then. Goodnight."  
"Goodnight, Sherlock."  
And he left. Molly shook her head. She rather wished he'd just leave her alone. Particularly because when he touched her hand, a slight shock was registered in her mind. A warm, delightful shock. An irksome, inconvenient one, too.


	11. Chapter 11

"Well?"  
Sherlock entered the flat. "Well what?"  
"How did it go with Molly?"  
"Fine."  
John stood up. "Fine? Did you ask her out?"  
"Obviously not."  
"Well, then I'd say it went less than fine."  
"What do you know about it?" Sherlock was getting annoyed.  
"A touch more than you, I'd wager." John smiled broadly.  
"Funny. No. I'm biding my time. I now have 26 days to ask her out. Plenty of time."  
"She has had a lot of dates lately, mate. I'd move a bit more quickly if I were you."  
Sherlock looked quizzically at John. "She's had a lot of dates? How do you know?"  
John didn't answer, instead he said, "Asking her out isn't the endgame. You need to tell her how you feel & then ask her out. Or tell her on your date. The point is to, well, declare yourself. Dinner & a passionate kiss is the incentive."  
"And the 100 quid. But in all seriousness. How do you know she's had dates?"  
"I know because I've gone out a few times with Molly's friend Mary. She's a school teacher..." He trailed off because Sherlock appeared to have begun ignoring him. "Sherlock?"  
"Why didn't she say she had been dating?"  
"Why would she tell you?"  
Sherlock looked at John. He looked away & went to the window to play his violin. John stood a minute. Sherlock Holmes was jealous. This was serious. He heaved a heavy sigh & left the flat to go see Mary.

As he played Bach, he thought about Molly. He thought about another man talking with her, making her laugh. He thought about where they would go to dinner. About walking her home. About her date stealing a kiss. He finished the piece & turned to say something to John. "John...I think you're right. I need to act more quickly." He opened his laptop. "Now, you go out to dinner all the time. Where might a good place be? Something with a soft atmosphere. Something not ethnic, not for a first date. Perhaps I should Google it? Romantic restaurants? John? Must be in the loo." He googled. "Ah. "Clos Maggiore." Most romantic in London...how much time do you suppose, John? Another week? Two at most? Two at most. I'll request a seven time in two weeks. That should do. There." He sent off an email. Tomorrow he'd go back to the lab & put on the charm. In another week he'd ask her out. Perfect. "John? I think I'll head to bed." He didn't hear a reply. "Cafeteria food from dating a teacher," he muttered under his breath.

The next day dawned to see Sherlock Holmes bustling about the kitchen. He was making coffee, he was creating a basket of food to bring to Molly.  
"Morning Sherlock," John yawned.  
"Feeling better?" Then Sherlock looked at him & realized he had spent the night at Mary's.  
"Feeling fine. Why do you ask?"  
"Uh...no reason."  
"This coffee? Mind if I..."  
"No no. Help yourself." He was too busy to pay John much mind.  
"What are you doing, then?"  
"I'm bringing Molly some lunch."  
John choked on his coffee, which resulted in a huge mess all over the kitchen, & all over Sherlock.  
"Lovely, John."  
"Sorry..." He fetched some water. "But you said...you said you were bringing her lunch? Since when do you cook?"  
"It's not that I can't cook. It's that I don't. Honestly, I've lived alone for quite some time. I can take care of myself."  
John looked dubiously at him.  
"Well, in a manner of speaking."  
"Desperate, are we?"  
"How dare you suggest any desperation on my part! I'm not desperate. I'm impressing her. How else do you propose I win her over?"  
"Ok. What is your plan?" John was still doubtful.  
"I'm bringing her lunch, obviously," he said, exhaustedly.  
"And? What are you planning on saying to her? You can't just barge in, say "Hey Molly! Got some eats! Made it myself! Fancy some dinner?" That won't work. And I wouldn't try flattery, either. She'll be suspicious." John rocked back & forth on up his heels, a note of triumph in his voice.  
"Thank you, Dr. Watson, for your compelling advice. I'll be certain to adhere to every word, for you surely know women as well as Romeo himself," he was dripping sarcasm as well as coffee now.  
"Right, let me know how it goes. I'm already planning a nice dinner with that 100 quid."  
He left to shower.

Sherlock packed everything up. Not a lot of stuff, really, & headed out the door. He was anticipating Molly's reaction. He thought of a few possibilities: 1) anger, she was still cross with him, & she didn't want him around. Get a hint. 2) confusion. She would accept the lunch hesitantly, thank him, & then think about it over repeatedly in her mind. 3) happiness. She would resume her normal speech mode, stammering, wringing her hands, etc., & invite him to stay & eat. 4) ecstasy. She would be so moved by the gesture, that she would strip there, in the morgue, & insist that they shag there on the table. Sherlock would have to think up a lie to tell John in this scenario. It would be breaking one of the rules.


	12. Chapter 12

Thanks for your reviews! I'm on quite a roll today!

He wasn't smug, or overly confident, or expecting success. That's what made it so strange, so confusing. Irritating. Absolutely abhorrent.  
Molly was reflecting on what had transpired only an hour previous. He walked, not sauntered into the morgue. He had asked to use the lab again. When she said he could, he gave her a small basket, & left for the lab. Molly, out of curiosity only, opened the basket. A container of tea. A small salad. A bag of crisps. Half of a turkey sandwich. What on earth did he mean by it?  
The true confusion occurred when he was leaving, about half an hour later.  
"Well, Molly. Thank you for allowing me use of the lab."  
"Of course. Thanks for lunch."  
He smiled at her. "Did you enjoy it?"  
"Haven't had my lunch break just yet."  
"No..." He appeared to be waiting for her to say something. "Yes. Well. I hope it's to your liking." He hesitated once more. "Molly...I'm rather bad at this sort of thing...however, it is my earnest desire to let you know that I...regard you with warmth. I'm exceedingly sorry for any hurt I've ever caused you. It was never my intent as such. I hope you consider me a...friend." That last word stuck a touch.  
Molly stared blankly at him. "A friend?"  
"Just so." He nodded affirmation.  
"I...no. Not really."  
"Pardon?"  
"I know what you expect me to say. You expect because you're suddenly being nice, that I'll just melt & say oh Sherlock, of course we're friends. Of course you can continue to abuse my position. Of course I'll forget how you feigned flattery to get what you want. Sure, use me some more. And I will go home to my cat & crap telly & try to forget all of these things, I'll only remember that once you brought me a sandwich which you bought me with, mind. Never mind that for ages & ages I was completely & utterly in love with you. Don't give me that look. You know it's true. And I will remain mousy Molly. Well, I'm not buying it, Sherlock. Take your food. It'll take a touch more & maybe, maybe I'll consider you something marginally more than an acquaintance I'm embarrassed of."  
Her speech concluded. Sherlock stood as if struck. "Keep it." And he left.

So. Anger it was. He wasn't surprised, necessarily. But the venom with which she spoke was a bit disconcerting. What should he do about it? He apologized. He can't flatter her. He wasn't about to stoop to such levels as having her kidnapped so he can rescue her (though he played with the idea briefly). He would have to prove himself in other ways, for if he couldn't win her fairly, he didn't want to have her at all. Not really. Well, perhaps a touch. Or two. He would need to prove himself independent of the way he treated her. But how?

He walked right by John Watson. No need to discuss this afternoon's setback. He needed quiet. He needed to reflect & think about who Molly Hooper really was. What would capture her fancy? Or reignite whatever he had j extinguished? Well, perhaps not inadvertently. He really never sought her attention before a few days ago. And so, he began his mental ministrations of one Molly Hooper, capturer of criminals, dissector of cadavers, owner of a cat, &, until quite recently, sweet as you like. Her venom was acute. He needed to sort through his vast arsenal of anecdotes to quell its effect.


	13. Chapter 13

Molly was angry. She was hurt. She felt betrayed & alone. How dare he treat her in such a way! She felt so used, she could taste the anger in her mouth. She left work an hour early to go home. She had every intention to do so; but then, it hit her. She was tired of getting taken off guard. Tired of the one always being barged in on. She had worked daylight, so it was still fairly early. She would go to his flat. See how he liked it.

Sherlock Holmes stared at his ceiling. He was on his bed, thinking about Molly Hooper. How silly this business was. He detested everything about it. Nothing, however, seemed more desirable than she. It wasn't just being right in his bet with John. It certainly wasn't the money. No. He genuinely cared about her. He fancied her. It bothered him that she spoke to him in such a vitriolic manner. Yet, part of him couldn't help but feel he was getting his just desserts. Blast. He hated being wrong, almost as much as he enjoyed being right.

He quitted the bedroom & sought John's company.  
"That bad, huh?"  
"Worse."  
John didn't feel like gloating. He rather felt bad for the stupid git. Maybe he should call it off.  
"You know, Sherlock. We could call it. The bet, I mean."  
"Why? What are you talking about?"  
Molly had entered downstairs, but Sherlock was so distracted by John's suggestion, that he hadn't heard her come up the stairs.  
"I mean, obviously, it's a bit more far gone than you thought."  
"What, Molly? I can do this, John. I resent your implication that I am not up to task."  
Molly had heard the sentence Sherlock had uttered & entered the flat.  
"What about me?"  
The men were standing in the sitting room, & turned simultaneously to gawk at her.  
"You're not up to task, Sherlock? I'm not surprised, but what were you talking about? I heard my name mentioned."  
Oh. My. God. John Watson stared at the two of them. His mind frozen. He couldn't utter a single word.  
"Well? What of it? Are you going to answer me?"  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes...of course. Molly, come sit down."  
"I don't want to bloody sit down! I want you to answer me! I want to know what's going on! Why you're bothering me at work! Why, after all this time, you're suddenly trying to be nice to me! Why!" Molly was shaking. She was on the verge of tears.  
Sherlock's phone rang out a text. "It's Lestrade, John. Case." He looked at Molly, unable to speak. What was he going to say to her? This was a completely unexpected development. "Would you...care to join us? If you're not otherwise engaged." He looked at Molly questioningly.  
"What? Really? On a case?"  
"Obviously. I need my coat. John, coming?"  
"Yeah. Hang on."  
"Molly?"  
"I...er...I guess so..." Molly wanted to go. She always wished to see him work. Really work.  
They hailed a cab. John sat between them. Sherlock didn't speak, nor did Molly. They arrived at the scene.  
"Hello freak. Got an entourage now? Fan club? An entire freak show? Brilliant." The three were let under the tape.  
"Is she always so pleasant?" Molly inquired.  
"Detective Donavan has serious issues with her own intellect, so she relishes the jabs she can throw at me. It's comical, really. She fancies it bothers me."  
Lestrade walked over. "What's Molly doing here?"  
"She's with me. Helping. Pathology." Sherlock glanced quickly at Molly to check her reaction. Indiscernible. John went off to speak with one of the officers.  
Greg led them to the bottom of the staircase where the body of a 40 year old woman lay. He began to examine the body, her clothing. Molly watched in fascination as he worked, meticulously going over every detail.  
"So?" Greg asked Sherlock.  
"She was drugged, pushed, & broke her cranium. She had an unhappy life, she smells of alcohol, but not drenched in it. She was administered Amantadine, a hallucinogen that is used to treat influenza, but it was given intravenously, so the effects can be profound. See these markings here on her fingertips? That's where the drug was given. She had had too much to drink, given the drug, & was pushed. I'd check to see if anyone she knew had the flu. They would either know the killer, or else is the killer."  
Anderson was standing next to Molly.  
"What a show off. How can you possibly get all that from her fingertips?"  
"Because I observed her. If you had half a mind..." He stopped. He stopped, because Molly had just punched Anderson in the face.  
"Ow! What the bloody hell was that for?"  
"For being a rude git." And she stalked off.  
Sherlock stared a moment after her before following. He might just be in love.


	14. Chapter 14

Thanks to SammyKatz for inspiring the actions of the last chapter!

The cab ride was rather quiet given the events at the crime scene. Molly was smiling to herself, as was Sherlock.  
Oddly, there was no discussion about whether she would be returning to 221B, she simply did.  
They entered the flat.  
"Molly, can I just say...that was effing brilliant? You really socked him? How did I miss it?" John was beaming at her.  
Molly blushed ever so slightly. "Well, he's an annoying ass. He had it coming, didn't he?"  
"Quite," replied Sherlock. "Ah...Molly. I have something for you." He went to the kitchen, & returned holding a box. "Here. These are some items I...borrowed from the lab. Silly, really. I can certainly afford my own. I suppose I did it..."  
"Because you could?" Molly said, though she wasn't angry.  
"Yes. Yes I suppose so," he handed the box to her smilingly.  
"Well. Guess I'll be off. Thanks, for letting me go."  
"Truly, the pleasure was all mine." Sherlock hesitated, he almost wanted to hug her or something. But instead, he smiled & said goodnight.  
"Well, well, well. I must admit. That was bloody brilliant. First, you divert her attention from the potential disaster of her overhearing our conversation. Then, you impress her with your intellect at a crime scene. Then you admit your obvious fault while doing something sweet by returning her lab things. To top it off, she punches Anderson for being rude to you. I couldn't have done better myself. You might win after all."  
Sherlock smiled once more. His cheeks were beginning to sore from the exercise.

Molly sat in her flat, pretending to read while she pet her cat. She had to admit, her resolve had broken somewhat. Watching Sherlock Holmes work was an aphrodisiac like she had never known. Dammit. And she punched a man. True, he was obviously a huge prat, but still. She. Punched. A. Man. Molly enjoyed her newfound self, but even she was unsure what to think of her.

He laid awake contemplating the Game. He had begun to feel ever so slightly guilty at the thought. He knew Molly would be angry if she knew, yet it wasn't without a genuinely honorable purpose. John was offering incentive to pursue something that he was unused to pursuing; something, in fact, that he would normally cringe at (he still did, truth be known). What next? He thought she was pleased with the crime scene. He certainly was. Perhaps he should involve her in other aspects of his life, that way, when he won & she was his, she wouldn't be taken off guard. She would be prepared for who he was: staggeringly brilliant, astonishingly eloquent, adoringly eccentric, a touch mad. Well, perhaps more than just a touch, but it wouldn't do to dwell on that.

It was almost a week later that he went back to the morgue. This was purposeful. He didn't wish to suffocate her. The seed had been planted.  
"Good evening Molly."  
"Hello, Sherlock," she looked up from her list. She was awaiting a new cadaver, it was late. But, at least the body could boast death as an excuse.  
"I was wondering, would you like to assist me in the lab this evening? John has a date." He added the last bit to deflect any inquiry about using John instead.  
Molly looked at him crookedly. "I have one as well, Sherlock. Sorry. I'm really rather busy now, too. Some other time?"  
Damn. He hadn't expected this. "Well...the thing is, I need these samples by tomorrow morning. I suppose I could do it myself, but an assistant would be most helpful, & you are the only person I know competent enough to do this, save John."  
He was hoping she would cancel her date, but instead she said, "Ok. I'll call Paul. Will an hour be enough? We can postpone it an hour, we don't have reservations."  
Sherlock smiled. It would have to do.

Molly was half listening to Paul talk about his boring job. She was thinking about how, in the lab earlier, she & Sherlock worked together on the solutions he was mixing. She thought about how his fingers had brushed her hand, twice. How he leaned a bit closer toward her than he usually did. She wasn't angry at him any longer, that she was sure of. She was still hurt. She still thought he was an arrogant self-absorbed wanker. But it seemed like he was trying. He was attempting to right some wrongs. She had to give him credit for that much.

Sherlock arrived at 221B in the sourest of moods. Angry that Molly was on a date that wasn't with him. Angry that he was angry. Angry that there was no John to complain to. He loathed jealousy. His mind writhed with the fact that he was jealous. He wouldn't rest until Molly Hooper succumbed to his charms, & it was doubtful he would rest thereafter, for he would constantly hate himself for it.  
He required a plan of action to dissuade her from any future dates with this "Paul." He knew that one of the rules was to not sabotage dates, however, as long as he wasn't bursting in on said date, he felt like it was fair game. He quickly went to his laptop to look up any Pauls that worked at Bart's. Three. By process of elimination (one was old, & one was a nurse. That left Paul Weslow in microbiology) he discovered him. He examined his picture & profile. Ha. Easily dissected. Child's play.


	15. Chapter 15

The loud banging on the door was not only ridiculous, it was, well, loud. Molly couldn't fathom who on earth would be rapping so vigorously. It made her nervous.  
She opened the door. Sherlock was standing there, looking careworn.  
"Molly, may I come in?"  
"Er...yeah. I guess so."  
He entered her flat, took off his coat, & ran his fingers through his hair.  
She didn't offer for him to sit down, or some tea. She stood there, looking at him. She was very confused.  
"Are you aware that your friend Paul has a drinking problem?"  
"Excuse me?"  
"Your date, drinking problem? Did you know?" Sometimes it astounded him how daft people could be. Even people as lovely, smart, & desirable as Molly Hooper.  
"Yes. He told me."  
He hadn't expected that. "Oh. Well, as long as you know..." His phone rang. When he checked it, he didn't recognize the number.  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I'm calling to confirm a reservation for tomorrow evening at 7 for two?"  
"Ah. Yes. Hold the line a moment," he looked at Molly. "Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow evening?"  
"What?"  
He sighed quite loudly. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"  
"No."  
He studied her face while he thanked the man on the phone & explained that he in fact, wouldn't be requiring the reservations, thank you. "Why?"  
"You know, you never explained yourself. Never answered those questions I had for you at your flat a week ago. Slipped out quite nicely. I'll ask you now. What's going on? I expect a full answer to this, thanks."  
"I..." He was thinking of what to say, the seed was growing, time to own up. He'd confess, damn the consequences. And Molly would need to settle for a three star restaurant with the 100 quid, since the five star was cancelled. "It appears I have amorous feelings for you."  
She blinked. That was all that she could muster.  
He took that as leave to continue, & he fidgeted a bit, never looking directly at her during this speech, for it bothered him exceedingly that he must give it. "I suppose I have for quite a while now, however, I was unable to ascertain the nature of said feelings (he grimaced) until as of late. Your alterations of character made me take notice. Your sweet nature coupled with your extensive scientific knowledge, your willingness to act in such a brave & impulsive way...as well as your hair...your frame..." He drifted a moment. "They all lend themselves to your overall desirability. And I suppose, given these attributes, I have developed these feelings...(still not looking at her) & I was hoping that your's have not disappeared. That you might, if you look deeply enough, find them laying dormant, & I might reawaken them." At last, he looked at her.  
She was ashen faced. She was hardly breathing. Then she slapped him.  
"How could you," she breathed. It wasn't a question.  
He rubbed his cheek. "What?" That was a question.  
"Now?! Now you like me? Now, after all of these years? After I followed you around like a puppy? After I did your bidding like an idiot? After I cried every night over you? Now? All I needed to do was catch a criminal & punch a prat?"  
"Why did you slap me?"  
"Because Sherlock. I hate you. Get out."  
His shoulders slumped. He had no choice. He left Molly's flat, beaten, literally. He had lost her. Lost the bet. Lost the only woman he ever wanted.


	16. Chapter 16

She was shaking. She was crying. Damn. She told herself she would never, ever cry over that bastard again. Well, she lied to herself.  
In more ways than that. She wasn't over him. Her heart had stopped during his speech. She was jelly kneed, stark faced, & a sloppy mess. How she had thought she had been daydreaming, but no...he was most assuredly there confessing his feelings for her. When he left, she collapsed. She was exhausted from the emotion pulsing her brain. She couldn't just let him win, though. Not just like that. He would need to worry just a tad before she went running to his flat & snogging him within an inch of his life.

He entered his flat in a very foreign state of mind. He hadn't counted on her knowing Paul had a drinking problem. On her being less than thrilled at his declaration. At her slapping him. He was experiencing doubt. He was experiencing sadness. Then he saw Mycroft & he experienced nausea.  
He was speaking with John.  
"Hello, dear brother. Looking a bit careworn."  
Did he have surveillance at Molly's flat? "What do you want, Mycroft?"  
"Come, now, Sherlock. John here has been filling me in on all of the unfortunate details. Can it be true? The virgin, not so virginal? Are you in love?" He snarled the word.  
"What do you want Mycroft?"  
"Simply finding out how the other half lives. Those that succumb to human frailties."  
Sherlock sneered at his brother. "Did John tell you it was a bet? That I was testing those abilities in myself? She's proven quite a challenge. Nothing that I can't handle. I'll win that 100 quid by the end of the week."  
"You only have three more days, Sherlock," observed John.  
"What? No matter. Three days..." He ran his fingers through his hair nervously.  
"Do you honestly believe," began Mycroft, "that a lady as bright, as sweet, as lovely as Molly Hooper will bend that readily simply because you've got 100 quid riding on it? Because I don't think she will...especially since she's heard every word I just said." Mycroft was smiling, & pointing his umbrella at the staircase.  
"You've got to be joking. Not again!" yelled John, & the front door was heard slamming shut. "How CAN she keep sneaking up on us like that?"  
"Best go after her, brother. She wants chasing," and the elder Holmes left.  
John nodded, "Go. Now. Go get her."  
Sherlock left, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

He spotted her within a few yards of her flat. It didn't take much to catch her. He grabbed her arm.  
"Molly! Stop this infernal running, allow me to explain."  
"Explain what, exactly? Explain how you're an ass? Explain how I'm an idiot? Explain how I'll never learn? Tell me, please. I'm tired of thinking. I'm done."  
"No...I mean to explain how this began."  
She looked at him. "Well?"  
"Can we go inside?"  
"What for? It'll hardly take long. And if it does, I'll just go in."  
"I...Ok." He sighed. "I realized my, erm, feelings for you. John bet me that I couldn't persuade you to return them, & I agreed...there."  
"That's all?"  
"Yes."  
"You've nothing else to say for yourself?"  
"I...should I?"  
"Well, yes. How about, "Molly, I'm sorry for using you. I'm sorry for being an ass. I'm sorry I let you do things for me & I never properly thanked you. I love you." Yes, I think that'll do."  
"Alright. What you just said."  
She looked at him questioningly.  
He sighed. "Molly. I ...am very sorry for ever making you feel badly. I care for you very much, & would like to kiss you now more than I've ever wanted anything. Except perhaps, a human brain to dissect."  
She laughed. They embraced. It was, for Molly Hooper, the happiest of results. The kiss was passionate, deep, and lustful. It was a moment before they realized that they were in public.  
He moved his hand to her cheek to stop the kiss from going deeper. "Shall we go inside?"  
"No. We should have dinner, then go inside,"  
"Alright, but we will need to return to Baker Street. Dinner is on John Watson."


	17. Chapter 17

They entered the flat laughing. John Watson turned from his station in his armchair at the sound.  
"Well. All sorted then?"  
"Yes. Sorted. Save one thing."  
John crinkled his nose at Sherlock. "Just one?"  
"I'm here to collect. Taking Molly to dinner."  
"For the love of god!"  
Molly smiled & gave John a peck on the cheek."I'm going to run to the loo. Be back in a flash."  
John took out his wallet. "I'm shocked. I really didn't think you had it in you. How are you feeling?"  
Sherlock thought a moment. "I feel...content."  
"That's not a word I'd've chosen, but Ok."  
"When you feel as I have for so long, contentment is an entirely desirable state to be in."  
Molly emerged, & the pair took the 100 quid to be used on their first date.

FINIS


End file.
